The Bouwerij Legacy
by RanMinamino
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester end up in New York, shortly after Agent Henricksen loses their trail. When the FBI passes the buck to the White Collar Crime Unit, can Agent Burke and Neal Caffrey catch the infamous Winchesters before they dig another grave?
1. Chapter 1

I wish I owned all of these beautiful, talented people and their ideas, but alas, I don't. If you like the story, please review! Also, I am a slow writer, fair warning. ;)

Chapter One

– One Week Ago -

It was a quiet night at St. Mark's in-the-Bowery, as a woman sat on a simple chair, head silently bowed in prayer, for herself, for her fracturing family, and for the world in general. The soft candle light from the prayer candles in front of the foremost row lit the cross dangling from her neck, and the few stragglers still among her in the church itself. She ended her prayer with a soft, "Amen," stood, and made her way for the exit, with all intent to head home to her husband and children, all asleep.

Deciding to take the shortcut through the churchyard towards 2nd Avenue, she stepped lightly over the vaults. Her flats crunched a few leftover leaves, when she paused, hearing a distinctive thunk and footsteps. She unclasped her mace from her purse's side pocket and looked around her. She saw nothing and continued walking. Again, she heard the sounds of footsteps and the clunk of wood, like a cane on the concrete directly behind her. She spun, seeing a hook-nosed, peg-legged man standing behind her, waving his cane at her menacingly. "Back off," she said, raising her mace, before she noticed his odd clothing, like something she would have seen in some play about the founding of America. She only paused a moment, giving the man enough time to lunge at her. Instantly she sprayed the can at his face. It went right through him. Eyes opening wide, she let out an ear piercing scream, dropped the can and ran toward the street. The hook-nosed man just cackled, before he disappeared into thin air, and the bell on St. Mark's started to clang the hour, before abruptly being cut silent before it's last toll.

* * *

><p>-Two Days ago-<p>

"Excuse me, sir?" Special Agent Peter Burke asked his supervisor.

"You heard me, Burke. None of those incompetent fools in their division could do it, so this case ended up on my desk." Special Agent in Charge Reese Hughes had adopted his no-nonsense tone.

"Yes, sir. But why White Collar?"

"It would take too long to list all the things they've done, and I know is if no one else can find these buffoons, you can."

That humbled Peter enough that when he spoke, all that came out was, "Yes, sir. I'll go brief Neal." The silver haired man nodded and Agent Burke left. His consultant was exactly where he'd left him: at Peter's desk with a case file and a sketchbook. His face was partially obscured by a few dark waves of hair that had fallen into his eyes while working. His head snapped up, however, when Peter stepped in.

With an amiable smile, he put the pencil in his hand down, flicking those pieces of hair behind an ear. "So what's up?"

"New case," Peter said, emphasizing by waving the little blue folder and setting it on the table between them. "A couple of guys from Kansas managed to tick off a lot of police and an Agent," here he paused to flip to the proper page, "Henricksen and his partner Reed. A couple of weeks ago, they managed to escape from an Arkansas prison. We have intel that puts them near Illinois a few days after that and now..." He passed the file over to his colleague.

"Now they're in New York? _That_ takes some courage. I like them already." Neal flipped the page and the smile died on his lips. "Never mind: multiple counts of murder, one of kidnapping, several of grave desecration? I can see if they had something of worth from a museum, but this? Peter, c'mon... Does this say he was medically _dead?_"

"I know, Neal. But on this one, we don't have a choice. They brought this to us because no one else can catch them\ . These guys are almost as slippery as you. I'm sure that between the two of us we can do something." The agent raised an eyebrow and relaxed backwards in his chair, tapping the top of the case file with one hand, the other over his chin and mouth, studying the consultant in front of him, purposefully ignoring that last comment. Clearly that hadn't been the case.

"Well if you caught _me_," Neal starts, blue eyes meeting Peter's brown. He cut himself off and closed the file he was working on only moments before. "I'm in. Let's catch these country boys."

* * *

><p>-One Day Ago-<p>

"Dean," Sam Winchester started, "are you sure it's such a good idea to be in _New York City_ of all places right now?" He shifted in his seat in the black 1967 Chevrolet Impala, obviously uncomfortable in the hub of the entire East Coast.

"Good idea? Probably not. But a four hundred year old spirit that no one's ganked yet? C'mon Sammy, don't tell me you're not interested." Dean Winchester said, with a glance at his brother. He jerked his gaze back to the front of the vehicle and slammed on the brakes. "Stupid New York drivers."

"It's _Sam_, and yeah, I mean, I admit, my interest is piqued. A ghost that old, that no one has been able to take out? There's got to be a reason." Sam adjusted his grip on his old Dell, glad it hadn't been sent into the floorboards yet.

Dean only shrugged, as he cut off some jerk in a Camry in the other lane, as Sam grabbed onto the armrest on the door. "You never know, dude's not been active in how many years?"

"Last reported sighting was back in 1953," Sam said, as if he'd said it a million times. If Dean hadn't been blowing the horn at some idiot in front of him, he might have even caught his little brother rolling his eyes.

"Exactly. So why now? I mean, why come back after over fifty years?" He finally pulled into a small, but efficient, motel parking lot, bringing the large car to an easy stop for the first time since they'd pulled into the city.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. His height didn't really allow for long car rides without stops, and he'd long since given up having Dean pull over until they'd hit their destination. "I thought that's what we were here to find out," he said with a smirk, and opened his door carefully to stretch his legs out of it.

"Smart ass," Dean nearly laughed. "Stay here while I get us a room." With that, the elder brother headed into the small office, so that he could do as he'd said.

While his brother was occupied doing that, Sam took the opportunity to get their things together. It wasn't long before Dean came back out with two keys for their room. "We've got work to do."

* * *

><p>-Present Day-<p>

Special Agent Clinton Jones was hoping for a quiet day at the office, just some paperwork, maybe some time in the van. As long as he was able to get off in time to head to his date with Hilarie. Now there was something he didn't mind w- a ding from his computer derailed any thoughts about the fiery redhead. He said a few choice words in his head, and printed out the details, intent on getting them to Peter. Looks like their new chase already had a lead; this definitely beat the van.

"Agent Burke!"

* * *

><p>A knocking on her door disturbed Connie Stone from watching Jerry Springer on re-runs for the umpteenth time that day. She jumped, nearly spilling her diet soda all over herself. Eyes twitched back and forth, and she carefully stood, tip-toeing over any loose items on the floor. Her children were with her mother today, and she'd meant to clean, but there were still toys everywhere. Chase, her son, was a large contributor to the mess. The knock came again, and she was pushed out of her thoughts, and onto a Matchbox car. Cursing, she hurried to the door, and stood on tip-toe to look through the peephole, only warily opening the door after she'd made sure the two men outside were alone. Even then, she never unlatched the chain lock, letting it obscure her vision as she asked with a hoarse voice, "Yes?"<p>

The tall one that had eyes just like her son's looked imploringly at her, "Yes, ma'am, are you Mrs..." He paused for a second, checking what looked like one of those notebooks she always saw reporters carrying on the TV. "Connie Stone?"

Drawing her housecoat over her shoulders, she stood a little straighter. "Yes, how can I help you?" Her eyes darted between the two of them, contemplating just shutting the door in both of their faces.

The shorter of the two spoke next, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners as he offered a smile. "I'm Glenn Tipton, and this is Rob Halford, we're with the Fortean Times." He almost phrased it as a question, wondering if she'd ever heard of the publication.

Luckily for them, given what she'd been through, she'd scoured the Internet for anything that seemed like what had happened. All of them had seemed ludicrous to her. She didn't budge the door any further.

"I know this all seems a little odd, but I assure you, we only want to talk about what you saw that night." His gaze was sincere, and he—_they_ were probably the only ones to believe what she'd seen last week besides the crazy lady by the neighborhood grocery with the shopping cart. "May we come in? It would be kind of awkward doing an interview on your door step."

Connie bit her lip in hesitation, before nodding. She closed the door to undo the locks, and open it fully. "Sorry for the mess." On the way to the couch, she started kicking toys and clothes out of the way, making a path for the two tall men after letting them in, and turned off the television while Jerry was went on about secret transsexuals.

Mr. Halford spoke, voice soft. "Really, you don't have to clean up for us. Trust me, we've seen a lot worse." She turned, and offered what she hoped was a radiant smile. The onset of lines on her face made her a little self-conscious, but she wiped it away with a internal shake of her head.

"It's fine, I was supposed to clean today anyway. You two get comfortable, and I'll make you something to drink." They both moved to protest, but she made placating gestures. "I insist. What would you like?"

"Water is fine," they both said at the same time, making her smile. She nodded and headed for the kitchen, feeling foolish talking to the two of them in her PJs. She shook it of and headed back with a sparkling glass of ice water for them both.

After they both thanked her in some capacity, she took her seat, and crossed the robe over herself again, and picked up her coffee. "I admit, I've only heard of your magazine over the Internet, but I'll answer any questions you have."

Mr. Halford opened his notebook again, and pulled a pen from inside his jacket pocket. "Well, we talked to some other people, but none of them had anything useful. Except for a Mrs... Well she only gave us the name Clover. She let us know where we could find you. That you'd seen a ghost."

She appraised him again. He, like Clover, didn't say the word 'ghost' with a sneer like her husband and the police officer who'd responded to her scream that terrible night. It made her shiver just that much more, remembering the cold breeze on her shoulder, and she ran her hands over her arms a little or warmth, nervously brushing dishwater blond hair over her shoulder.

"So you don't think I'm crazy?" She asked the two, eyes turning back up to plead with them.

"No, ma'am," said the one with the striking eyes, Mr. Tipton, if she remembered correctly, said. "What you saw was completely real. We just need to know _what_ you saw."

"Please," Mr. Halford added.

* * *

><p>"Dude, seriously, why'd I have to be Halford?" Sam smacked his brother in the arm, probably harder than he should have.<p>

The loud guffaw echoed in the beautiful interior of the car. "What? It was supposed to be a compliment, Sammy." He ignored his brother's immediate correction on the nickname and continued, "He's confident, and pretty bad ass." He just raised his eyebrows and grinned.

That got a small smile from the younger Winchester. "And … never mind." He shook his head. "At least we know we're definitely dealing with Peg-Leg Peter." Furrowing his brows for a moment, he licked his bottom lip and said, "You know he was entombed in concrete, right? How are we going to get to him?"

"It's all part of the job, Sammy. A really fun part of the job."

The engine revved as they merged into traffic on the way back to the motel.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: This work is part of my writer's group project. We're getting ready for a smaller version of NaNoWriMo, and this is to help me get ready. So expect more updates this month. :) Unfortunately, less updates next month. 50k words. Oi.

Yes, this chapter will feel a little disjointed. It'll all make sense later. Also, I'd love to hear more of what you think of the piece!

Chapter Two

The dingy outside of the small home was the first thing Neal Caffrey noticed as Peter pulled his Taurus into an open spot in front. His distaste was clear enough that Peter laughed. "It can't all be five star hotels and art galas, Neal."

"Why not?" He grinned, but did open the passenger door and slid out, his fedora flipping onto his head of raven hair with a flourish.

A smirk and a huff of air Peter tried not to let turn into a laugh were barely noticed. "Let's just get to work. The sooner we find these kids, the sooner we can go back to mortgage fraud." Peter smirked as Neal's face fell when they made their way up the stairs.

"You're no fun, has anyone told you that?"

"Yes, you, on several occasions. I don't pay it any mind." His grin faded just when the door was answered and slid open, at least to the chain lock, to reveal a mid-thirties woman, as a pair of children played behind her by the sounds of it.

"Can I help you gentlemen? Chase, Karen, you two behave," she yelled behind her, before turning back to the FBI Agent and his consultant.

"I'm sorry to bother you ma'am," Peter started, reaching into his jacket pocket for his badge, "But I have a few questions, in regards to a couple of gentleman you spoke with the other day?"

"You mean those nice reporters?" She blinked, and opened the door fully as soon as she saw Peter's badge. "They were nothing but polite, I promise."

Neal's brow furrowed. She was certainly more put together than what sources had led them to believe. He already wasn't liking the feel of this case. It just didn't sit right in his gut, not that he'd ever tell Peter that. Especially not right now.

"No, ma'am, I'm sorry, but they weren't reporters." Even Peter could see how her face fell at that.

"W-what do you mean?"

"What my esteemed colleague here is trying to say is," Neal interrupted, "that the two gentlemen you spoke to the other day, they're not very nice people like you think they are. They're criminals." He poured all the charm he could into the words, his eyes, and facial features that he could.

"Really?" A crashing came from the hallway, and one of the children whined. "Karen! Stop throwing things at your brother!" But then she nodded at the two of them.

Peter bit his lip. "Their names are Sam and Dean Winchester, and currently are on the run from the FBI for a multitude of charges, none of which I can safely discuss. Who did they say they were?"

Mrs. Stone's face went pink, but she dug in a small pile of papers on the entrance table, and grabbed what looked like a very convincing business card. Not something you printed off of a home printer. "They said they were reporters..." She repeated, as if saying the words again would make it true.

Neal took the card at Peter's prompting. "Fortean Times, Reporters Glenn Tipton and Robert Halford." Peter's sudden snort made him hand the card over.

"You've got to be kidding me." At Neal's confused look, Peter continued, "They're original band members from Judas Priest. Henricksen's profile warned us they may use aliases based off of classic rock, but who knew they'd be so blatant..." Peter shook his head.

Neal's grin was bright as he said, "I didn't know you listened to Judas Priest, Peter..." He rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets. Though a stern look from Peter dampened his smile and outward enthusiasm. "Sorry." Though Neal's face didn't look sorry, it promised further teasing once the two were back at the office later.

"Mrs. Stone, if you can think of any other information, it would be extremely beneficial to us." Peter said as he shifted, and pulled a business card out of the inside of his suit jacket, passing it over to the woman in front of them. "Just give me a call." Then Peter Burke turned to leave.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to come in for a drink," Mrs. Stone asked, before yelling over her shoulder, "Chase, if you don't get that crayon _off of my wall this instant_, you won't be able to sit down for a _week!_"

The intensity of the yell made Peter pause, and just offer a smile. "I'm sure, ma'am. You enjoy your day." Then he turned and went back down the steps, motioning for Neal to follow him. Once Peter heard the door shut, he turned to Neal. "Something isn't sitting right with me on this."

"You mean besides the fact that she actually talked to reporters, but wouldn't open the door until she saw your badge?" Neal asked with a raised eyebrow.

"There's that," Peter started, before he turned back to the house as if the outside of it would reveal everything that made his gut a little uneasy about this case. He shook his head. "Let's get back to the office," he said after a few moments of silence.

"Can we listen to Judas Priest on the way?" Neal's grin was bright, eyes full of teasing as he ducked inside the passenger seat of the Taurus.

Peter's mouth dropped open to say something witty in response, but he shook his head, got into the car himself, and started the engine. "You can listen to it all you want on the way back to prison." Neal's grin dropped off of his face quickly. "That's what I thought." A hand snaked out toward the dash and Peter smacked it. "No touching the buttons."

"Not even the-"

"Not even the map thing."

* * *

><p>"Mommy, when's Daddy coming home," Chase asked, now done adorning her wall with what he probably thought were complex and enthralling pictures of his adventures at school. In reality, they were scribbles of squares and more squiggles than anything. But to his seven year old brain, they probably seemed to be on par with Raphael, not that Chase knew who that was.<p>

"Once he's finished with your cousin's Bar Mitzvah, honey," she sighed, headed to the kitchen to grab a scrubber.

"How come we didn't go?" Chase was definitely a bright boy, who needed to know everything.

"Because we're not Jewish, honey. Your Daddy is," she patiently explained. She'd had to go through the same thing with Karen when she had seen Blake put up the Menorah a couple of years ago.

"What's Jewish mean?"

"It just means Daddy worships God a little differently sweetie, that's all," Connie elaborated.

"Oh." That apparently seemed enough to sate Chase's appetite. Connie, however, was absolutely sure that there would be more questions now that he knew his father was different. How he hadn't seen it before baffled her, but she was grateful for the extra time to think of how to formulate her responses. She checked her phone, took note of the message from Blake saying he'd be home around eight, and went to scrub at the crayon on the wall.

* * *

><p>The first thing to greet Peter upon his and Neal's return to the office had been "Victim of Changes" playing from Jones' speakers on his desk. The sound of the perpetrator's dark laughter was just barely audible over the music. Peter immediately turned around, looking straight at the con-man who'd been walking behind him. "Very funny Neal."<p>

"You didn't say I couldn't tell anyone..." He just shrugged and his blue eyes sparkled when he let that bright grin cross his face. He wriggled his phone in front of Peter then further entered the White Collar office, headed straight for his desk, intent on finding the two who'd evaded the FBI.

"Nice, real nice." Peter rolled his eyes, and carefully schooled his face against the smile that threatened to break free in response to Neal's.

"Back to work! The Winchesters aren't going to turn themselves in!" In response to Peter's raised voice, Jones turned off the music, and others returned to their work that had been interrupted by the loud rock music.

Behind his glass door, Reese Hughes just shook his head in amusement.

* * *

><p>Blake Stone headed towards 2nd Avenue, having safely placed his Yarmulke in the inner pocket of his suit. As comfortable as he felt in New York, he still wasn't going to take any chances someone would make an insult on his religion if they saw him wearing it. The middle aged man shivered and straightened against a gust of wind that blew in his face. The night air chilled a bit, and to hurry his way home, Blake chose to take the shortcut his wife had shown him through St. Mark's, her church.<p>

"When did it get so cold?" He muttered to himself as another chilly wind blew across his shoulders. He may have been wearing a suit, but it wasn't well lined, as he hadn't expected such chilly temperatures. His breath fogged in front of him, and he could swear that he heard wood clack against the stones behind him, like his father's cane, which didn't have a rubber bottom.

Blake looked over his shoulder, seeing nothing, and shook his head. "Connie's crazy stories must be rubbing off on me," he said with a chuckle. "I'm even talking to myself."

It was when he went to turn around to continue his path home that he stopped in his tracks, a hook-nosed man in front of him, an almost evil grin spread across his face. He spoke, but it was so soft, he could barely hear it over the wind. "Deceitful..." The man seemed to sneer at him, growing louder and louder as he took a step toward Mr. Stone.

"Stop," Blake warned until he saw the bright silver blade gleam in the early moonlight. "Hey, look, I don't have much on me, but you can have it okay? I have children. I won't even call the cops." Which was a blatant lie, but he'd have to hope the man in front of him believed it, and just took what he had on him.

The cry came again, "Deceitful!" before the man lunged at him, which caught Blake off guard. Before he could dodge, the blade sank deep into his leg, his cry of pain silenced by his own shock.

Blake scrabbled away as best as he could. He finally found his voice right as the sword came down toward his throat. The sound of blood spattering against the pathway scared what birds there were away into the night.

* * *

><p>Dean had slept peacefully through the night, only to be awoken before the crack of dawn by Sam's cell phones shrill ring. He turned his head, only to see Sam blindly reach for the table between his and Dean's bed, hit the accept button, and tuck the phone against his ear. His eyes still weren't open yet. "Hello?" His voice was deep, still half asleep.<p>

A woman's voice pierced the night, making Dean sit up a little further, rubbing at his eyes.

"Are you all right?" Sam's voice was concerned, and he sat himself up. "No, no, it's alright, tell me what happened."

It was a few minutes before Dean had his brother's attention. "Connie's husband was just murdered," Sam said, before he stretched and rubbed the sleep from his eyes after a jaw-cracking yawn. Then something seemed to hit him. "You know, it was at the same place she got attacked."

"Guess we should head up there then?" Dean asked, sitting up and rubbing at his hair as Sam nodded. "I got dibs on the shower," Dean said with a smirk.

TBC


End file.
